Statenville
by Kittystitch
Summary: Again, Chief has to face a part of his past he'd rather forget.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: This references Episode 21, "Ride of Terror". It's not really necessary to watch that first, but it might help._

 **STATENVILLE**

When he walked into his office that morning, the file was still sitting in the middle of his desk. Garrison had hoped that it would somehow disappear overnight, and the whole thing would just go away. This wasn't going to be easy.

He reached for the intercom on his desk. "Connors, would you find Chief and have him report to my office, please?"

As he waited, he read through the documents one more time. They'd come yesterday in a thick envelope from the U.S. District Attorney's office in Georgia. They detailed the murder of a guard in a 1939 Statenville Prison escape, the incident that had gotten Chief convicted of manslaughter and sent to Federal prison. One man had gotten away. Chief was caught. Having to relive the whole experience again was not something Garrison wanted to put Chief through. But he had no choice.

"Warden."

Startled, Garrison looked up at Chief standing in his doorway. He was always surprised at how silent his scout could be, even in this old building with its creaky wooden floors. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Never mind. Come in. Sit down. And close the door."

Chief just stood there, probably sensing the waves of anxiety pouring off of him.

"It's okay." Garrison tried to smile. "Come on in."

Chief did as he was told, closing the door behind him and easing into the chair in front of the desk.

Garrison reached for a sheet of paper that was sitting in his out box and studied it for a minute, still trying to figure out how best to approach this. "I have your latest firing range scores. Impressive. You could probably teach a few things to the new recruits." Chief remained silent, so he continued. "But your obstacle course times are down. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"None of your old wounds are bothering you?"

"I said I'm fine. Cut the crap, Warden. Why am I really here?"

With a sigh, Garrison tossed the training report back into his out box and picked up the thick file folder in front of him. Might as well jump right in. "This came yesterday, from Georgia. They've captured Amos Hardy."

A muscle twitched in Chief's jaw. "Took 'em long enough."

"He goes on trial next week. They need you to testify."

"Ain't gonna happen, Warden."

"Legally, you're still a Federal prisoner. You don't have a choice."

"How about I just sign a paper or somethin'."

"Evidently they need you in person, in front of a jury."

Chief sat motionless for a brief minute. When he spoke, the calmness in his voice was chilling. "We had a deal, Lieutenant. I ain't goin' back."

Garrison tried to sound reassuring. "It's just to testify at the trial. They're not going to keep you..."

"What? You think they're just gonna let me wander loose? I'm a con." Chief stood, ready to bolt. "They ain't puttin' me in that hell-hole again."

Garrison realized it wasn't anger he was seeing. It was fear. Something he wasn't used to seeing in Chief. "Take it easy. Sit down."

The dark eyes bored a hole in him.

"Please. Sit."

Chief's eyes narrowed, he drew in a breath, and returned to the chair. Garrison continued. "You may still be a Federal prisoner, but you're in my custody. And I do have some say in how you're treated."

Chief cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "You on the level?"

"No one is going to put you in a cell, I promise. I know this won't be easy, but it should only take a few days, a week at most."

The silence lingered for a moment. Chief studied his face, as if looking for something he could trust. "Is Pryor testifyin'?"

Colonel Frank Pryor, now an officer in the intelligence service, had been the warden at Statenville at the time of the escape. Earlier that year, when their mission had been to rescue Pryor from a Nazi POW camp, he'd been lucky Chief let him live.

"No, he's not on the witness list."

Again, the silence hung in the room.

"They caught the other guy yet?" Chief finally asked.

"What other guy?"

"Hardy's buddy on the outside. You don't think he got away all by himself, do ya?"

Garrison flipped through the file again, seeing if he'd missed anything. "I don't see any mention of an accomplice. I'll see what I can find out." He closed the file and considered the young man sitting in front of him. The jaw muscle still twitched, and his hands sat motionless on his thighs.

"Don't you want to see Hardy get what he deserves?"

Chief looked him in the eye and almost smirked. "Him offin' that guard was probably the best thing that coulda happened to me."

"What do you mean? It got you convicted of manslaughter."

"Got me sent up to Atlanta. Much classier hell-hole."

Garrison leaned back in his chair, relieved at Chief's dark humor. "You still need to tell them the truth."

"Yeah, sure, the truth." Chief sighed and rose to leave. "At least nobody'll be shootin' at us."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

They'd flown into Fort Benning, arriving after midnight, then requisitioned a jeep and headed for Statenville. During the five hour drive, Chief had remained unusually still, staring straight ahead into the darkness. Garrison made a couple of attempts at conversation, mostly trying to keep himself awake, but he eventually left Chief to his solitude. As the sun was coming up, he'd pulled the jeep into a parking spot in front of Mamie's Cafe, a little 24-hour place where the breakfast crowd was just beginning to gather. They'd settled into a booth next to the large front window, and Garrison ordered for both of them. It had come quickly, hot and plentiful, and he ate in silence.

Garrison finished the last of his toast and looked up at the sausage and eggs growing cold on Chief's plate. "You have to eat. The rations you had on the plane aren't going to hold you."

"Ain't hungry."

Garrison wiped his hands on his napkin and reached for his coffee cup. "Suit yourself."

"Who're we meetin' here again?" The dinner knife Chief was fiddling with was too heavy and awkward to twirl like he did the switchblade he'd had to leave back at the mansion.

"The prosecuting attorney. I thought you might be more comfortable meeting here instead of at his office in the courthouse." Garrison glanced at Chief's untouched meal. "Evidently I was wrong."

"Nah, it's alright." Chief shook his head and tossed the knife back onto the table. "Just a lot of ghosts, that's all."

"Try to relax. You've handled a lot worse than this."

The little greeting bell tinkled as the cafe's front door swung open. Garrison had his back to the door, but he saw instant recognition in Chief's face.

A portly, gray-haired man in a white three-piece suit and wire-rimmed glasses approached their table. "Lieutenant Garrison, I presume? Your uniform gives you away."

Garrison rose and shook the man's hand. "Mr. Torrence. Thanks for meeting us here. Chief, this is Randall Torrence, the assistant DA handling the case."

The muscle tightened in Chief's jaw again. "I know who he is."

Torrence pulled a chair up to the end of the booth and gave Chief a grandfatherly smile. "Yes, the young man and I have had previous business together."

Chief turned his hard glare on Garrison. "That ain't in your file, Warden?"

"No, it isn't." Evidently there was a lot that wasn't in his file.

"You see, Lieutenant," Torrence explained, "I was the prosecuting attorney who sent him to Federal prison four years ago. I'm probably not one of his most favorite people."

"Got that straight."

"Chief..." Garrison gave him the 'knock it off' glare. "Remember, you're not the one on trial here."

"Yeah, right..."

Torrence looked Chief directly in the eye. "Keep in mind, son, that I'm also the one who got your sentence reduced from first degree murder to manslaughter. I doubt you'd be here today if the DA had gotten his way."

"Whaddya want? An award?"

"Chief."

"It's alright, Lieutenant, he has every right to be angry." Torrence sighed and pulled a file from his briefcase. "But we're here to send Amos Hardy to the gas chamber. If we can set aside old animosities, I'd like to get started. I have to be in court in an hour."

Randall Torrence spent the next 45 minutes reviewing all the procedural details, while Garrison took notes. Chief had turned sideways in the booth, leaning against the window and stretching his legs out along the bench, bluffing a nonchalance Garrison knew was only a carefully controlled facade. Chief never took his eyes off of Torrence, as if the old man were a rattlesnake about to strike.

Finally Torrence gathered up his materials and slid them back into his brief case. "Any questions, gentlemen?"

In one easy, fluid motion, Chief slid out of the booth. "I need some air."

Garrison nodded his approval. "No sightseeing, okay?"

As Chief headed out the door, Torrence's eyes followed him. "Do you trust him, Lieutenant?"

Garrison watched through the window as Chief leaned against the hood of their jeep, staring down the street at something only he could see. "I do," he finally told Torrence. "I trust him with my life every time we run a mission. That trust isn't a part time thing. Or a one-way street. It's taken a while, but I think he's learned that. He's a valuable member of my team."

"I don't know the details of your team, Lieutenant, but it's obviously unusual. How did you end up with...he goes by Chief, now?"

"The Army gave me a list. He was on it, and he had the skills I needed." Garrison drained the last of his now cold coffee.

The old man leaned back in his chair and wiped his glasses with his handkerchief. "I believe you probably saw the same thing in him that I did. He's a very smart young man who's had a lot of bad breaks. The only real education he got was in our estimable criminal justice system, and he made the best of it." Torrence replaced his glasses and rose to leave. "This afternoon in my office we'll go over his testimony."

Garrison rose too, and shook the lawyer's hand. "That won't be easy for him."

"I know. I'll try to make it as painless as possible." Torrence smiled at him. "But I am glad you found him, Lieutenant."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The Army was springing for a room at Pritchett's Boarding House on a quiet residential street not far from the center of town. The chintz wallpaper was fading, and the colorful quilts smelled of moth balls, but the room was large and sunny and immaculately clean. After they'd dumped their gear, Garrison had gone down the hall to take a bath, then stretched out onto one of the beds and immediately fallen asleep.

Chief washed up, too, with what was left of the hot water, but when he laid down on the other bed, he found himself staring at the cracks in the ceiling, listening to Garrison's soft snoring. He quietly dressed and headed downstairs, out onto the spacious porch that extended across the entire front of the white clapboard house. There was a swing and three rocking chairs, but he chose to sit at the foot of the cement steps. Needing to keep his hands busy, he pulled the dinner knife from his pants pocket.

'Tell them the truth,' Garrison had said. They hadn't wanted the truth four years ago. Why would they want it now? They didn't really care - they just wanted Hardy's head on a spike. If the truth still didn't matter to them, maybe he wouldn't have to explain the whole mess again, in front of a crowd of people. He'd just tell them what they already knew, and that would be the end of it.

As the warm morning light shifted, the tempting fragrance of baking bread wafting from inside the house made his stomach growl. His watch read 12:15.

Chief slipped the knife back into his pocket and followed the aroma into the kitchen. The tall, imposing Mrs. Pritchett was turning loaves of bread out onto cooling racks, her face, apron and large hands dusted with flour. Her grey hair was escaping in wisps from its neat little bun.

When she saw him in the doorway, her smile lit up her whole face. "Good afternoon, young man. Are you rested after your long trip?"

"Yes, ma'am." Chief couldn't help but return her smile.

"You must be starving. I'll get you some lunch. I have all this fresh bread and some nice ham, thanks to Mr. Wilkins." She winked at him slyly. "I know it goes against the rationing and all, but whenever he slaughters one of his hogs, he always thinks of us. Just sit right here at the table and I'll fix you a plate. Where is that Lieutenant of yours?"

"Still sleepin', I reckon." He sat in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, and she set a tall glass of milk in front of him.

"Such a polite young man. You don't have to 'ma'am' me, son. I ain't your grandma. Just call me Annie."

"Yes, ma'am...Annie." He wondered what it would have been like to have a mother like her. Or any mother at all...

She continued to prattle on about Mr. Wilkins and his hogs and cows and chickens, and how she'd have a hard time feeding her boarders if it weren't for his kindness. The plate she served him was piled with warm bread, salty ham, fresh slices of tomato, and a mound of potato salad. Chief was surprised that he ate it all. He was draining the last of his second glass of milk when Garrison entered the kitchen.

"That smell took me right back to my childhood, Mrs. Pritchett."

She gave Garrison the same big, welcoming smile. "Nothing like fresh baked bread, is there, Lieutenant? Come in and sit, and I'll fix you a plate."

"Just a slice of that wonderful bread would be great. We're due at Mr. Torrence's office." He took the thick slice Annie handed him, slathered with butter, and he laid a hand on Chief's shoulder. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Chief took a deep breath and stood, laying his napkin on the table. "Thank you, ma'am."

As they headed for the front door, she called after them. "Don't forget. Dinner's at six. And this is fried chicken night."

As they climbed into the jeep, Garrison stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and started the engine. "Think we could take her back to England with us?"

"Goniff would love her."


	2. Chapter 2

_The guard dragged him off of the pallet while he was still half asleep. "C'mon, punk, they're lettin' you out of the box early this time."_

 _Chief grabbed for his shirt and rushed to put it on as the big man pushed him toward the thick iron cell door. By his count, he'd only been in solitary for a week instead of the usual two. But sometimes it was hard to tell, with no view of the rising and setting sun. The lights were always glaring, and the two meals a day were generic, nothing to tell breakfast from dinner. After they'd climbed the three flights of stairs to the maximum security block, and the guard had shoved him into his regular cell, he noticed the faint eastern glow coming through the small window. It was early morning._

 _"_ _Hey, kiddo. Good to have you back," Hardy greeted him. "How ya feelin'?"_

 _Amos Hardy had been his cell mate for six months. Chief had decided that if he had to share a cell with anyone, Hardy wasn't too bad. For some reason the hardened con had taken a liking to him. Although he knew how to deal out punishment, he would sometimes take on the role of Chief's guardian and protector. The tricky part was knowing which way he was going to roll in any given situation. This morning he seemed genuinely glad to see him._

 _Chief ignored Hardy and boosted himself onto the top bunk to stretch out, leaning away from the pain in his left side. Along with solitary confinement, the long cut across his ribs had been a reward for the knife fight in the exercise yard a week ago. He'd tried to keep in clean and covered, but it was still tender._

 _Hardy leaned his chin on the edge of Chief's bunk and slapped him on the leg. "You can thank me for gettin' ya out of that hole so quick."_

 _"_ _Yeah? How's that?"_

 _"_ _I volunteered us for a little outside duty. We're gonna be working the road gang today."_

 _"_ _You can volunteer for that?" Chief had never heard of such a thing. Work crews outside the prison walls were usually reserved for the minimum security, non-violent guys._

 _"_ _You can if you know people. And have a little leverage." Hardy grinned, his nearly bald head and the gap left by a missing front tooth making him look like a jack-o-lantern._

 _The knife cut stung, and Chief was bone-tired from lack of sleep. "Ain't interested."_

 _"_ _C'mon, kid. The fresh air will do ya good. You need to be more appreciative. I don't do this for just anybody."_

 _Chief relented. The work crews got a good breakfast, and the physical labor would work some of the kinks out of his muscles. At least it would make the day go fast. If he was able to stay out of trouble, maybe they'd let him out on the work crews more often._

 _"_ _Besides," Hardy whispered, "I got a little surprise for ya today."_

 _Hardy hadn't mentioned it was a chain gang, but Chief chided himself for not figuring it out. They'd never let him, or the likes of Hardy, just wander loose, no matter how many turnkeys had weapons trained on them. This morning there were only two, and each prisoner was chained to another at the ankle. Chief was chained to Hardy, and it made walking difficult._

 _They'd only been shoveling gravel for an hour, but the relentless sun was making his head throb. His stomach threatened to toss his breakfast, and he struggled to keep the shovel in focus. The heavy iron band around his ankle had already rubbed a raw spot, and he leaned down to try and pull the cuff of his pants leg between the metal and his skin._

 _One of the other prisoners gave a loud wolf whistle. "Hey, pretty boy, that an invitation?"_

 _Chief stood and squarely faced the leering goon. "You want a piece a me? You ain't got the balls..."_

 _Hardy jerked on the chain, cutting him off, and moved forward, fists balled into hard wads. "Watch it, Rat-Face. This sweet piece of meat is mine, got it?"_

 _One of the guards stepped between them, rifle cocked. "Save it for lights-out, you perverts. Get back to shoveling."_

 _The wolf and his cronies moved away, grumbling, but Chief doubted he'd heard the last from him. He'd handled that type before. Too many times. He'd do it again._

 _Hardy moved toward another of the piles of gravel they were spreading, and Chief had to follow. "Don't mind that jerk-off," Hardy smiled at him. "He'll get what's comin' to him."_

 _"_ _He don't scare me. I can take him."_

 _"_ _I know you can, kiddo." At the sound of a vehicle coming down the road, Hardy looked up, and his smile widened. "That's why I brought you along."_

 _A mud-covered pick-up truck pulled up on the shoulder of the road next to one of the guards. A tall, wiry guy in faded coveralls got out of the driver's seat and approached the guard, grinning broadly._

 _"_ _You gotta move along, buddy," the guard ordered. "Can't have you endangered by these vicious criminals."_

 _The grin froze in place as the guy lashed out and grabbed the guard's rifle, spun him around, and tightened an arm around his neck. He tossed the rifle in Hardy's direction, then yanked a handgun from a pocket and pressed it against the guard's temple. To the second stunned guard he growled, "You twitch one muscle and your buddy here gets his brains splattered into Florida. One of y'all take his gun."_

 _Wolf Whistle didn't hesitate to snatch the rifle and point it at the guard's face._

 _Chief held his breath, his blood pounding in his ears. Prison breaks never ended well, for anyone involved. And he was trapped, chained to one of the perpetrators._

 _Almost yanking Chief off balance, Hardy rushed forward, grabbing up the rifle he'd been tossed, and then dug into the pockets of the constrained guard, pulling out a ring of keys. "Got 'em. Lets blow this joint."_

 _Chief expected Hardy to unlock the shackles, but instead he pulled the choking guard out of his friend's grip and shoved him face first to the ground._

 _Hardy's smile turned into a wide-eyed grimace as he pointed the rifle at the guard's back. "This is for every scar, every broken bone, every day I spent in this fuckin' cess pit, screw."_

 _"_ _Hardy, don't..."_

 _Hardy pulled the trigger. Twice. Blood pooled in the dirt beneath the dead man's head._

 _The shackle dug at his ankle as Hardy dragged him toward the truck, shoved him in, and climbed in after him. "Surprised, kiddo?"_

 _Coveralls leapt into the driver's seat and gunned the engine, the momentum pushing Chief back against the seat as the truck sped for the southern horizon._

 _When he'd caught his breath, Chief yelled above the whine of the engine. "Are you outta your mind, man? You just bought the gas chamber."_

 _"_ _They gotta catch me first." Hardy reached down and unlocked the iron band from around his own ankle._

 _"_ _You shot a guard. We'll be back in stir before sunset. If they don't kill us first."_

 _Hardy just grinned that gap-toothed grimace and turned his attention back to the road, leaving Chief's shackle in place._

 _After fifteen minutes of silence, several turns onto deserted back roads, and no sign of pursuit, Chief still had no idea what their plan was or how he fit into it. Finally, Hardy slapped his partner on the shoulder and motioned toward a dirt path heading into a pine forest. "Turn off here."_

 _They bumped along for a few hundred yards, then stopped, and Hardy pulled Chief out of the truck. "Sorry, kiddo. This is where we part ways. You understand, right?"_

 _"_ _You're just gonna leave me here?" Actually, he was glad to be rid of these psychos. He'd figure something out, and make his own way, just as he always had._

 _"_ _You been a good cell mate, kiddo. I'd really like to help ya out. But me and Jake here got other plans."_

 _Jake yelled from the driver's seat, "Get it done, Amos. We ain't got all day."_

 _Hardy shook his head and raised the hand gun. The bullet ripped into Chief's left thigh, spinning him as he fell. He grabbed at the white pain that burned into the muscle, and felt his blood gushing out between his fingers. The truck sped away, spraying him with dirt._

 _He lay still, trying to make sense of what just happened. The only thing he knew for sure was that he couldn't stay here, hidden in the trees. Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, he dragged himself to the nearest tree and pulled himself up. He had to stop and catch his breath, then he limped from tree to tree, each step pulsing out more blood, until he'd reached the edge of the road._

 _Panting, trying to draw in a complete breath, he collapsed into the grass. He couldn't think. Every thought drained away like the blood oozing from the hole in his leg. He was either going to bleed out here on this god-forsaken back road, or his lungs would burn to cinder in the gas chamber. But he was beyond caring about anything but making the pain stop. His last coherent thought was wondering how long it would take him to bleed to death._

gg gg gg gg gg gg

For a long moment, the silence was as thick as the heat in the tiny office, until Chief finally turned away from the window. "That's it. Next thing I remember is wakin' up in the prison hospital."

Garrison finally leaned back in his chair and let himself breathe. Getting all the details out of Chief had taken a while, but Torrence had been patient and reassuring with his questions, as Chief had paced like a caged wildcat.

"That's good, son." Torrence stopped writing and laid down his pen. "Your story hasn't changed from four years ago."

"Changed?" Chief snapped. "It was the truth then, it's the truth now."

"I know, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant..."

"So you think you'll put Chief on the stand tomorrow?" Garrison asked, in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

"Yes, he'll be my first witness. The defense will cross examine, and your part will be done. You can return to saving the world from the Nazis." Torrence looked up at Chief, who leaned against the window sill, his hands in his pockets. "He'll try to rattle you, son, but just answer his questions, stick to the truth, and you'll be fine."

Chief shoved away from the window. "We done here?"

Standing and shaking Garrison's hand, Torrence said, "Yes. Thank you, gentlemen. I'll see you in court tomorrow at 9 a.m. Or 09:00 as you military folks say."

Chief followed Garrison out into the hall, and the door closed behind them. Garrison could feel the tension radiating from his scout. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just great."

"I didn't know you were shot."

"That ain't in your file either? Can't have your cold-blooded killer lookin' too sympathetic, I guess."

"Well, by this time tomorrow, it'll all be over. Let's go get some of Mrs. Pritchett's fried chicken."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Even though Chief was up before dawn the next morning, Mrs. Pritchett was already in her kitchen frying bacon and baking biscuits. She turned and grinned at his cut-off fatigue pants and wrinkled shirt hanging unbuttoned over his singlet. He realized she probably considered him to be half naked.

"Me and the Warden are goin' for a run," he tried to explain.

"Well sit down and have some breakfast while you wait." She handed him a cup of steaming coffee.

He took the delicate flowered cup and wrapped his fingers around it, soaking in the comforting heat. "Thanks, ma'am. Maybe when we get back."

"You can't run on an empty stomach." She held out a tray of biscuits. "At least have a couple of these while they're still warm."

He thanked her again and took his coffee and biscuits out to the front porch steps. In the damp morning air, the rose bushes along the walkway gave off a heady perfume, so different from the smells he associated with this place. The cell blocks had been bad enough, but the exercise yard had always reeked of the nearby paper mills and swamps.

He wiped his hands down his pants leg, getting rid of the butter and crumbs, and picked up a stick that had fallen from the nearby elm. If he'd had his switchblade, he would have carved it, but as he waited for Garrison, he idly peeled the bark from the green stem.

The screen door squeaked open behind him as Garrison came out onto the porch, also dressed in fatigues, with his sleeves rolled up. Chief stood to follow him down the walk.

"We probably have time to get in a few miles," Garrison said. "We can take a left onto Main, then a right onto Courthouse, and run along the creek..."

"Ain't that familiar with the town, Warden." Chief handed him the stick. "Wanna draw me a map?"

Garrison smirked at him, then trotted off down the path.

As usual, they ran in silence, side by side, as the sun rose higher and the humidity built. Along the dirt path that ran by the creek, the trees gave shade and the air smelled of earth and green things. Here in the open air, free to run for as long and as far as he wanted, he felt like he could take on the world. By this afternoon, he could climb out of his past for good, get on a plane for home, and never again look back. He had to smile at the thought that he was looking forward to getting back to his own hard, lumpy cot, in a room he shared with three guys who constantly drove him nuts. Back to risking his life fighting the Germans with those same guys.

"What are you grinning at?" Garrison asked him.

"Nothin'. Just thinkin'."

The shot echoed through the woods. Garrison jerked and stumbled sideways, sliding down the embankment toward the creek. All of Chief's training kicked in automatically. He leapt down the bank, skidding in the dead leaves, and dragged Garrison behind a large fallen oak. Trying to keep his head down, he scanned the wooded hillside on the other side of the path, looking for any sign of the shooter. Nothing moved.

He turned his attention to Garrison, who was gritting his teeth, clutching his bloody right arm. Chief pulled the Warden's hand away from the wound and tore away the shirt sleeve. The bullet had ripped a deep gash across his bicep. Chief stripped off his own shirt and tied it tightly around the wound.

"What the hell..." Garrison winced at the sudden pressure. "Tell me the Krauts haven't invaded Georgia."

When Garrison tried to move, Chief held him down. "Take it easy. I can't tell where the shot came from."

He again scanned what he could see through the thick forest. This time he caught the movement of a branch and the glint of metal near the top of the low ridge on the opposite side of the trail.

The shout gave away the exact position. "Hey, injun!"

Chief didn't answer, letting the echo fade, letting the shooter get impatient and give up more information.

"I told Amos he shoulda killed ya. I told him you'd be trouble. But he got all soft-hearted, and now look what happened."

"The accomplice," Garrison breathed. "Your testimony will nail him."

That had occurred to Chief, too. Garrison wasn't the target, Jake was just a lousy shot. But Jake was expecting the green teenager, the kid Hardy had duped into helping with the jail break. That kid was long gone.

He looked at his commander, trying to assess his condition. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'll live."

"Pretend you're me."

"What?"

"Keep him busy, keep him talkin'." Chief pulled the dinner knife from his pocket, its end now a sharp point, the edge honed lethally thin.

Garrison's eyes narrowed. "I won't ask where you got that."

Chief just smiled at him and slithered off through the woods. As he looped to the west, giving Jake a wide berth, he could hear Garrison shouting behind him. "You ain't gonna get away with this, Jake."

"Just watch me."

"If my buddy dies, I'm gonna carve your liver out with a dull knife and shove it down your throat."

As the bantered continued, Chief spared a brief thought at how much the Warden sounded like a hardened jailbird. He probably had their quarters bugged.

Focusing again, he zeroed in on Jake's voice. He circled in silently, the modified dinner knife held ready. The guy was moving slowly down the hill, holding a deer rifle to his shoulder, closing in on his quarry. When Jake paused behind a tree, Chief froze. When Jake eased forward, so did Chief, moving as fast as he dared to close the distance between them.

Jake paused one last time, concentrating on drawing Garrison into his sights. And then he discovered that his target was alone. The realization hit him too late. With one powerful stroke, Chief slashed his Achilles tendon.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

As usual, the smell of baking filled the parlor, making his mouth water. This time it was oatmeal cookies. Chief took another one from the plate on the coffee table in front of him and bit off a piece, letting the sweetness melt on his tongue. Then he picked up the three page document that was sitting next to the cookies.

The whole incident was there, reduced to hard black letters on stark white paper, cold and bloodless. When he'd finished reading it for the second time, Chief took the fountain pen and scratched his name on the designated line. His real name. His old name. It looked strange to him, like the blurry image of an acquaintance from the distant past. He folded it and took it back into the kitchen, where the Warden and Randall Torrence were sitting, drinking coffee.

Mrs. Pritchett was still hovering over Garrison, as she'd been doing for the last two days. "Lieutenant, you should really be using the sling. You know what the doctor said about reopening that wound."

"I promise not to lift anything heavier than a coffee cup." Garrison smiled patiently at her, draining the remainder of his coffee.

Chief set the pen and document on the table. "That about covers it."

"Nothing to add or change?" Torrence asked.

"Nope. That's how it happened."

"You're sure this deposition will be enough?" Garrison asked. "They won't still need him to come back and testify when the trial is rescheduled?"

Torrence returned the pen to his pocket and stood to leave. "I'll see to it, Lieutenant. You boys have a war to win."

"What about that other man?" Mrs. Pritchett wanted to know.

"Jake McCoy won't see the inside of a court room for quite sometime. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

As Torrence headed out through the parlor, toward the front porch, Chief and Garrison followed. Their gear was already stowed in the back of the jeep. Once outside, Torrence turned and shook Garrison's hand, then reached out to Chief. "I'm truly sorry for everything you've been through, son. Four years ago and now. Best of luck to you."

Chief accepted the handshake, but he had nothing to say to the man. He watched in silence as Torrence got into his big, black Ford and drove away.

They both turned as Mrs. Pritchett came through the screen door behind them. "Are you boys ready to leave too?"

"Yes, ma'am," Garrison nodded. "It's a long drive back to Fort Benning."

She held out a large paper sack. "I know those C-rations they give you are nasty, so I packed you some vittles for your trip. Just some sandwiches and cookies and some fruit."

Garrison took the greased-stained sack. "Thank you, ma'am. We will definitely enjoy these. And thanks for all your hospitality."

As they started down the steps, she grabbed each of them by the arm and kissed each on the cheek. "Please be safe, and come back to see me after the war."

Falling easily into his usual role as conscientious foot soldier, Chief opened the passenger side door for his wounded commander, then walked around the jeep and climbed into the driver's seat.

Garrison waved to Mrs. Pritchett, who was still standing on the porch watching them. "I think she's crying."

Chief grinned at him as he pulled away from the curb. "She's losin' her favorite patient."

"Just drive."

When they reached the intersection of Main Street and the highway, the jeep wanted to turn east. Chief let it.

"Fort Benning's the other way," Garrison reminded him, a simple statement of fact.

"I know."

He pulled the jeep onto the shoulder of the road at the end of the long dirt track. From this distance, you couldn't see the barbed wire that topped the walls, or the armed guards in their watchtowers. The inside, though, was burned into his memory. The cramped, dark cells. The barren, dusty exercise yard. And the fetid, damp hole that was solitary confinement, where he'd spent most of his time. He knew the constant fear, the deadly fights, the pain of untreated injuries, the ache of hunger and thirst. But from here it looked small and powerless, just ugly gray buildings marring the lush farmland. The breeze was at his back, blowing away the foul odor of the paper mills and swamp gas. The only thing he smelled now was the aroma of the fresh bread and oatmeal cookies that wafted from the paper sack on the seat next to Garrison.

Briefly he closed his eyes and raised his face to the late-morning sun, its warmth bright against his eyelids. Then he swung the jeep around and headed northwest, toward the flight home, leaving Statenville Prison in the dust.

They'd ridden in silence for a half hour when Garrison finally spoke. "That wasn't one of Mrs. Pritchett's good silver dinner knives, was it?"

"Nah. It was the diner's."

"How did you sharpen it?"

"The front porch steps."

"Resourceful."

"Never good to be unarmed."

Garrison just shook his head, and reached into the paper sack. "Want a sandwich?"


End file.
